I'm going to try something and it's going to be really funny actually
Dear The Divine Goddess,
Satomi, this is an outright form of blackmail. You will have to judge if I will make good on this promise and how much your integrity matters to you. If you score this article such that my contestant will be eligible for elimination, I will fully explain the two things you don't want explained on the Wiki Camp 2 server for everyone to read. You will obviously want to delete this, but the logical conclusion of this situation might be that you have to remove me from both the server and competition.
Your move.
Trivia
I might come back here and talk more later. Have a good day!
Girl Moby-Dick
CHAPTER 1. Loomings
Call me Girl Ishmael. Some years ago—don't worry about when exactly—when I was completely broke, and when land bored the ever-loving daylights out of me, methought (methinks, past tense) I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It makes my internal organs feel better. Whenever I find myself frowning; whenever I'm really sad; whenever I think that headstones are really cool, and digging up human bones; and especially whenever I have a #sadgirl moment at the station and start calling other people's outfits trash—then I walk directly into the ocean, metaphorically speaking. This is what I do instead of shooting myself. While others may leap off of this mortal coil, I go sailing in search of yuri. This is perfectly normal. All women should be doing this.
Near Manhattan, battered by the sea—trade is afoot. All roads lead to Rome, if Rome was the sea. The high tide and low tide reaches right up to the city, and people watch it. Everyone is doing this.
Walk on Sunday. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip to Whitehall. What's there?—women. Women staring at the ocean. They're fucking everywhere. They're girl landlubbers though. They're wagies. It's sad.
Holy shit! more women, walking straight into the ocean in search of yuri. Weird! The land isn't yuri enough for them. No. The ocean is where it's at. Everyone loves staring out into the deep blue and wistfully sighing. Why is that? Do the compasses bring them there?
Imagine a burger. Now, imagine you are not American, and replace that burger with a lake. Walk alongside the lake, and you're going to end up by a creek. The creek is yuri. Any woman worth their salt could walk for an hour and see that there is yuri in the water. Even if you're in the desert, you can walk and find an oasis of yuri. Meditation and water are wedded forever. This, too, is yuri.
Imagine a girl artist. She desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape. What will she draw? She'll draw a meadow and some cows. Maybe a hill. It's all pointless if there wasn't a stream, because then it wouldn't be yuri. Imagine the American prairie now. There's no water. Sad! Niagara Falls would be pretty dogshit if it were made of sand. Imagine a girl poet. Now imagine the poet goes to a beach. Boom. Why is almost every robust healthy girl with a robust healthy soul in her, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? (It's for yuri.) If you've ever been on a boat where you couldn't see the land, it's yuri in every direction. Magical. Why did the old girl Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the girl Greeks give it a separate deity, and own sister of Girl Jove? (Her name is Girl Poseidon.) This has to mean something. Girl Narcissus didn't actually love her reflection, she really loved the water. Because it was yuri. Water is love, water is life, water is yuri.
When I get tired I go to the sea. When I think about my lungs, I get sad, so I go to the sea. But I'm kind of poor. I can't pay for luxury cruises, and I'm also not an officer of the military. Other girls can fight for that leisure or honor. I'm a simple girl. I'm a struggler, I can't take care of anything more than myself. I couldn't be a cook either, I see a raw chicken and get kind of scared. Did the Egyptians worship chickens? I don't think so.
No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, because I like it. They tell me what to do sometimes. And I didn't like it at first. Listening to another woman makes you feel small. I'm a teacher by the way. It's weird commanding my students and then being bossed around, but it's okay after a while.
Sometimes a woman tells me to sweep the floor. In this moment, I ask myself, what would Girl Jesus do? Would Girl Gabriel think I'm a beta for doing this? What the fuck is a beta? No, it's okay. There is a natural order to things, and sometimes we have to listen to other people.
I'm actually on the sigma female grindset. I get paid for doing this. Passengers don't. They're "betas." I like being paid. I don't like paying people.
Oh yeah, the ocean smells good. The Girl Commodore might think she has the best oceansmell, but she's wrong. The girls up deck do. Anyway, I'm going whaling. It must have been fate. Imagine a universal newspaper with a ton of headlines. Mine would be a really small one in between big ones. Think about it...
"Girl Hillary Rodham Clinton loses election." "Girl Ishmael went whaling." "War on Terror."
Like I said, it must have been fate.
Or maybe the whale wanted me to. I like whales. They're really big and awesome. I think about far-off lands and get really excited, and one day I want to visit Japan. I'm sure they would receive me with open arms.
In the end, it was a foregone conclusion I'd go whaling. Have I said that whales are really cool? Especially the big white one.
CHAPTER 2. The Purse
I stuffed a blouse or two into my old purse and headed for the sea. Leaving Manhattan, I went to New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. I had a mental breakdown when I learned the next ship for Nantucket was on Monday. I was so distraught.
Most girls stop here before whaling to weigh their options, but I'm built different. It was Nantucket or nothing, baby! New Bedford was the epicenter of the new wave of doing things, and Nantucket had the oldheads. My male counterpart said something kind of racist here so I'm not repeating it.
I got kind of hungry and sleepy. It was really cold, because as I said, it was December. I knew no one in the place. I realized at this point I was kind of stupid for only having a couple of dollars in my pocket, so I went and looked for a Motel 6 somewhere.
There was a Hilton, which I definitely couldn't afford. There was also a Mariott, and that was also too expensive. It was really snowy and cold so I kept walking.
I was walking through the residential district, eventually, and saw an inn. I walked in and tripped over an ashtray and was really embarrassed about it.
[This is kind of fucking racist actually? I'm not translating it.] I realized I had entered a Black church in the middle of a sermon and got even more embarrassed. I scampered out of there.
I made sure that I actually found an inn this time. I could tell this building was an inn because it was called the Spouter Inn.
It looked kind of dogshit.
My male counterpart starts talking about wind here and it really isn't relevant to the story at all.
This paragraph also isn't relevant.
Neither is this one.
I sat here thinking about the Biblical Lazaraus so long I started freezing on the doorstep. I wiped my shoes off and entered the inn.